For a few years now (I think it started in seminary), I’ve felt as though drinking coffee from a mug is a sacred act—especially as my morning routine continues to evolve, adding more tasks and responsibilities as time goes by.
In other words, there is something about cradling the warm cup in my hands and being still that ushers me into a holy place.
I’ll be the first to admit, however, that I do not generally care for being still. In the stillness, I feel entirely too seen and known—whether by others, God, or myself. And, for as long as I can remember, being seen and known in such a way is unsettling for me.
For our family, self-quarantine was initially chaotic as Bo and I scrambled to find our footing as pastors of three churches collectively—making sure we stay connected with them in various, old and new and sometimes even innovative ways. That on top of trying to keep an energetic and fairly intelligent toddler engaged and challenged proved to be just that—a challenge.
But now that we’re in a rhythm (day 28, roughly), chaos is slowly settling into calmness, semi-clarity, and—unfortunately for me—stillness.
I just do not do well with it.
I like to stay moving, on the go, busy—you know, as many of us do.
And so, ironically, in this new stillness of our mornings coupled with the warm coffee mug cupped in my hands, what I’ve found myself praying almost as fervently as I’ve prayed for God to heal and restore all things unto Godself is that God would forgive me and deliver me from worshiping the idol of busyness.
Because I do. Not just in these days where I’d much prefer to set a limb ablaze as process the emotional weight of the global health crisis through which we are all literally just trying to survive one day at a time. But also in the everydayness of what we once called normal.
We’re not going back there, you know...the what-was-normal is no more. A new normal will be the future outcome of our present reality. And that’s really hard for me to grapple with a lot of the time. Maybe it is for you, too.
It is why I have—unintentionally—begun what I suppose you might call the (albeit strange) spiritual practice of crying into my coffee.
Two nights ago, I got the phone call I’d been holding my breath waiting for, dreading: one of my beloved parishioners passed away. Not of the virus-that-shall-not-be-named but of a surprisingly aggressive form of cancer. I couldn’t visit him before he died. I can’t go hug his wife and cry with her. I do not yet know what it will look like to grieve his death and celebrate his life with his family and our community. I can’t comfort my parishioners in person as I would normally have the privilege and honor of doing.
So, this morning—perhaps with more freeness than usual...not by choice but by heartbreak—I cried into my coffee.
Big.
Silent.
Hot.
Ugly.
Tears.
Plopped down onto my shoulders one after the other, after having traveled the outline that separates my cheeks from my mouth as I sipped my coffee, completely surrendered to the weight of my grief.
As I mentioned earlier, we’re not going back to what “was” before what we now know as COVID-19. But perhaps, that’s not all bad. Transformation is occurring—often for the better. We’re appreciating each other and our families and our friends and our communities and strangers and people we’ll never meet more than we did before this started. We’re putting in the time to stay connected with those we love. We’re finding out about ourselves—our capability for creativity and/or our need for rest. We’re learning (or at least I am) that no amount of worshiping the idol of “busyness” will protect us from what threatens to break our hearts and crush our spirits. We’re learning—for better or for worse—that fully experiencing and feeling our emotions is necessary and that they’ll eventually catch up with us anyway if we don’t.
I guess, all of this to say...don’t try to hide from the heaviness of what’s going on around us and within us. Don’t try to cover up grief—yours or that of the world at large. Things look different than they did a month ago, so allow yourself flexibility where you are able. Receive whatever it is God might be teaching you or reminding you in this season. Embrace the new and at times perhaps strange spiritual practices that allow you to reconnect with yourself and with God within you.
Take heart, dear ones.
This is not forever.
God holds us close in these times where we cannot hold one another like we long to do.
God has us.
We have each other.
And while these truths do not altogether “fix” the suffering and the anguish and the fear and the loss, they certainly make for a much more hopeful outlook than if they did not exist.
Know that you’ve got what you need to carry on—even if it’s just a breath at a time; know that you are fiercely & deeply loved—with every breath you breathe. May these assurances sustain us in the days ahead.
Deep peace,
Pastor Mary Kate
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